


What Immortal Hand

by Krystalicekitsu



Category: White Collar
Genre: Community: kissbingo, Fluff, Hand Kink, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-16
Updated: 2010-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 01:22:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/195321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Krystalicekitsu/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One thing Peter loves about Neal Caffery is his hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Immortal Hand

**Author's Note:**

> for my [](http://kissbingo.livejournal.com/profile)[**kissbingo**](http://kissbingo.livejournal.com/) [card](http://krystalicekitsu.livejournal.com/99198.html#cutid1). The square ' _body: hands_ '. I'm literally writing this with oil paint smeared over my hands, from the inspiration to this fic, which is still not done.

  
One thing Peter loves about Neal Caffery (not that there aren't about a hundred and, not that he'd ever tell him a single one) is his hands.

Those elegant hands, delicate but strong, calloused just enough to show a dedication to effort, but supple enough that it was obvious he hadn't spent a day of his adult life doing manual labor.

Peter loves those hands.

Loves massaging the thick muscle of his thumbs, brushing off dried clay as Neal stands and stares intently at his latest piece. Pressing the pads of his fingers into the palm, soothing circles over the joints and down into his wrist, watching as clay balls up under his ministrations and falls to the floor like mercury. Up the backs of his hands and just slightly to his forearms where the kneading has tightened the muscles up into knots. Watches the clay dust off, plays with the earth-red skin where it's dyed over the backs of his hands.

Finds a sort of fascination at how ink seeps into the valleys of his fingerprints and leaves the ridges in startling pale-skinned clarity when he works with Indian ink. Brushes over and over the delicate pads until Neal is fighting off giggles and pins him down to leave little black, or sepia or brown smudges over his face and neck. Trailing down his chest to other more interesting places.

He's entranced at the way acrylic peels off in smooth pieces, baring smooth, pink flesh underneath. Enjoys even more watching it crackle and crease in the folds of his knuckles. Watch it start to scrunch in the webbing between his fingers.

More than all these, he loves when Neal's hands have been working with oil. The hues will seep in and stain his skin long after the paint has been peeled off, leaving a trove of chormeological clues. Hints of color will hide in the crevices of his nails, in the deep creases of his palms, a colored path of what Neal's done and experience. Who he's been and who he is.

Peter will lay in bed with an exhausted Neal, running thumbs and fingers over his hands and fingers, warm and dexterous and nubile and lay a kiss on the tip of each finger. Brush lips over the delicate, thinner skin in the center of his palm. Lick the taste of linseed oil from his thumbs.

Every night at five, or five thirty, or at six. When Neal has run out of energy for the night, or patience with the piece or muse for the moment. When he falls into Peter's waiting arms, Peter will kiss each finger, lick his thumbs and sucks at the thin skin of his palms.

In praise.

In thanks.

These hands have kept him safe, tended his wounds, given shelter and warmth. Brought him to completion with a touch, or soothed away demons with a brush.

More importantly, these were the hands that brought them together, with a con, a forgery, a grift.

These hands made his world and hold it together.

  



End file.
